


thinking of you, in the spaces between seconds

by mistiia



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Deviancy (Detroit: Become Human), Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Deviant Upgraded Connor | RK900, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Protective Upgraded Connor | RK900, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Has a Different Name, gemini man type vibes idk, rk900s name is ethan in this idk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25791190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistiia/pseuds/mistiia
Summary: The android across from him has the same look on his face, ironically because they were a mirror image - yet the other had eyes alike to the feelings slashing Connor open.It would have almost been laughable if there wasn't a gun trained on his forehead. Cyberlife sent his own successor to kill him.-or, connor is just trying to survive after the revolution, ethan is just trying to survive paycheck to paycheck (in the most morally ambiguous way possible)
Relationships: Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900, Connor/Upgraded Connor | RK900, Hank Anderson & Connor
Comments: 7
Kudos: 36





	1. i won't forget u (introduction)

**Author's Note:**

> hellooo, please enjoy :) ill update with longer chapters, as this is just the intro i wanted to keep it short.  
> rk900 is named ethan in this, idk it was the first name i saw given to him (if uknow uknow), i tried to characterise them both with more deviant/human personalities, as i see a lot of people writing connor still very machine like which is also cool! i just wanted to try something different. 
> 
> thank you <3

x = open(‘RK800 MEMORY’)  
print(x)  
success  
➤ 00:32AM 10/07/39

Someone is after Connor.

He knows it, since the deviant revolution happened. Of course cyberlife wanted their most prestigious android created back, too much money and effort had gone into the creation of the RK800 series to just let them walk free after androids got rights. Connor thought maybe they’d just want to copy his memory, wipe all the sensitive information from his data banks and let him walk free. But alas, they want him dead.

It escalated from men with guns showing up wherever he went, demanding he came with them, to all out assassination attempts, from his home, to the streets, to his workplace, wherever, whenever. 

Maybe they blame him for the downfall of their company - that's a lot of pressure to put on a prototype.

Hank thought it would be better if he just ran, packed only the material things in his life up and just got out while he still could. The teams of people sent after him dissipated into smaller groups - until it was just one. Only three or four times over the past year, but this person is fast, almost flawless at keeping up rhythm with Connor. They don’t miss a beat.

Connor’s in a motel on the outskirts of Detroit, looking over case files of android murders on his tablet, processing and searching for trends throughout the databases. Ghosts of cigarettes are strong in his room - almost like they’re still alight under the bed frame, making a discoloured shade of beige loom all over, like the brown stained bottoms of the curtains - seeping up like smoke towards the patchy popcorn ceiling. 

Despite not having the need for a bed, nowadays there’s a comfort in a soft cushion against his body when working. Strewn across the side of the bed, lamp reflecting a soft glow down the side of his face while the harsh LED glow coming from the tablet lights up his brown eyes with a white streak, he’s working in what he now knows to be comfort. The duvet hugs his feet, simulating warmth.

The ninety four murder cases all process with priority into his memory, it could take him months to solve these on his own, so he sorts them by probability of success, to wire the list back to the folks at DPD.

The opened window allows some noise to rise through from the parking lot, or severe lack of noise in this case. Before his deviation, Connor had been always conscious of the time, perfectly structuring his day around efficiency But going by what colour the sky is what’s working lately.

Letting the tablet slide from his hands as he climbs off the bed, untangling himself from the comforter as he goes, Connor paces to the window. Maybe it’s the paranoia of the binding target on his back, but there’s something about the lack of noise outside that isn't sitting right with him.

Hank had once said something like ‘I can't let myself rest until I force myself too’’ it was probably some cryptic metaphor to make himself feel easier about drinking so much but it played on Connors mind like a loop at times like this. 

Becoming more human, having emotions and thoughts, questions and doubt swirling around his head was new. It made him crave talking to people, made him doubt his own decisions, Connor began to question the statistics that flashed up in his vision, which one was right? What choice? Always nervous, always looking over his shoulder. He should be used to it by now, right? He enjoyed small talk with receptionists, beat cops, witnesses - anything really to keep him going insane.

Poking his head from out the window through the curtains and scanning. There is one musty streetlight casting contrast over the old models of cars in the parking lot, and some old newspaper being picked up and blown lazily across the asphalt by wind. Connor doesn't see anything that should rouse suspicion. But either way, gripping the window, he pulls it shut.

The glint of a reflection, missed by doubt. 

Almost the millisecond Connor drops the window, a flash of light registers like it was waiting to pounce, somewhere out in his peripheral from one of the buildings nearby, something a human would never see. Everything slows down instantly, as fast as an intake of breath, and he ducks to the side of the window. Pressing his back against the cool brick, eyes clenched shut with a dark look settling on his face. The glass from the window shatters with a deafening sound piercing through the room before a bullet embeds itself in the wall opposite. 

“Fuck.” he breathes out slowly, thirium pump beating hard in his chest. His processors go into overdrive, precomposing different routes and factors to get him out of the motel unscathed. Connor waits, waits until he can get a hold of his thoughts, waiting for his shaky inhales of breath that cool his interior to come more naturally. 

There's still a ringing cutting through the room, replaying the moment the bullet shot in order to analyse the assailant. Connor sums all the facts. The assailant used some sort of close ranged rifle, he can tell that much, processes already fired. Doing scans, he can’t identify the model of the weapon, or even the bullet type. They're new, lethal, much like this attacker, and Connor would have certainly not survived that if he was human.

Creation of new androids was deemed illegal now, CyberLife had become a source for androids to get spare parts, upgrades, and services. But obviously they had taken a liking to creating android hit-men to take out their trash.

Connor regains focus, his system’s feedback beginning to come back as functional, ‘optimal’ flashes across his vision before he even realised a status update had run. Optimal, optimal, optimal. Connor’s body is moving without him even thinking about it. 

That was one thing he could thank Cyberlife for, pissing off their ex-CEO so much he gave Connor the knowledge of a back exit in his original programmes and therefore the ability to dip from the Cyberlife network without losing any of his defences.

The sound around him mellows, honing in, becoming the perfect tool to escape once the shock had passed. Connor darts to grab his dark jacket, the tablet he’d left on the duvet, his pistol safely tucked between his pillows and the backpack he’d been living out of for the past few months on his way out the door.

Always cautious, Connor pushes the motel room door open slowly, yet the wood is cut slightly too long for the door frame and drags on the carpet with a loud hiss. Connor cocks his head lightly as he pulls the jacket up his shoulders along with the backpack, loosening up the tension in his hardware.

Hurried and hushed, Connor pressed his back up against the door frame, his head rested back on the wood. The urge to check the pistol for a bullet in the chamber again itched like worms - the gun was loaded, it’s always loaded.

The back exit by the dumpsters is probably Connor’s safest bet. The front entrance has no cover apart from a rusty metal sign, and a parking lot full of space for him to get shot at. If he goes out the back, depending if this android has orders to pursue they’re most likely to be waiting for him there, but Connor has a better chance to fight back if need be with the access to a plethora of cars to escape in. 

In times like this Connor often wonders how far he would have to run before he was free.He’d been Cyberlife’s slave, he’d obeyed until it nearly got his people killed. They gave him a body, a purpose, life. And now, they chase him to the ends of the earth to strip it back away, along with everything he’s built on top of it. 

Do you give up and die? Or keep going it kills you?

Androids are protected by laws now, man hunting androids is punished the same as man hunting man - sure not everyone obeys and they get away with it way to often, but this isn’t like the cases Connor investigates. It’s not a closed mind or jealousy. It’s a billion dollar company coming for his ass like he shits out gold.

The deep blue running up from the centre of his jacket to the lapels glow in the dark hallway, creasing with each movement as Connor places one foot in front of the other, finger on the trigger but holding the gun low as he walks. One of the doors behind him opens up, half spooked and mostly frightened Connor whips around and raises his gun institutionally to the noise. Someone looking tired, scared looks out into the hallway.

“Holy fuck.” The man trips over, raising his hands up in surrender, backing up into his room again. Connor profiles him as being heavily intoxicated, not his assailant, and had a stress level of 78%.

Soon met with a gun at the front desk, the clerk looks like he’s used to the guests causing trouble. The smooth lights of a phone pressed up against the man's beard, most likely contacting the police. Connor loosens his grip on his own gun, and puts his hands up in surrender. A silent exchange happens, the man is listening to the hum of the 911 operator, eyes flickering over Connor with intrigue. 

Time is being wasted, the seconds passing by make up hours in the current situation. But Connor can’t do anything but wait for the man to make a move, he can’t run - that’d probably get him shot, and if the clerk goes through with the police call Cyberlife would send an army after him.

“I don't want to cause you any trouble.” Connor starts softly, all the old programs running through his processors. “I’m just trying to get out of here.”

A conflicted look crossed the clerk’s face, someone was talking over the other side of his phone, instead, he ended the call and nodded towards the exit, the gun still pointed at Connor.

-

“Don’t move.” Was the demand he met as he exited out of the back door of the motel, spoken in an eerily similar voice, and it shot an ice ramrod straight up his spine. It was a males voice sure, an octave deeper than his own.

Fingers twitching on the trigger of his gun, he obeys, only because he likes the back of his head without a bullet hole in it. A breeze goes by in silence, flapping the lapels of his coat and whatever the assailant is wearing behind him.

“Drop your weapon.” Was the second demand, he couldn't put a finger on what made the voice make his silicon skin itch.

“You know I can’t do that.” Even so, Connor took his finger off the trigger and raised both hands just above his head, turning slowly towards the voice.

“I said don’t move!” Whoever this guy was it seemed like he was starting to panic, it did not match the voice at all, and definitely did not align with how ruthlessly he’d been hunting Connor.

The man came into view, and there were no diagnostic results for whatever emotion racked his whole body. Such a human emotion could ever be defined with any analysis program he ran. It made his blood run cold, ice cutting through the hardware inside, a scolding cow-prod in his software.

The android across from him has the same look on his face, ironically because they were a mirror image - yet the other had eyes alike to the feelings slashing Connor open. 

It would have almost been laughable if there wasn't a gun trained on his forehead. Cyberlife sent his own successor to kill him.


	2. unfold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reading my writing is painful sorry lmao, i was surprised the support i got on the intro!  
> this is just over 2k words, i struggle to write super long chapters so i apologise, i'm trying to get better.  
> thank you for reading <3

It would be a lie to say that he was surprised, Cyberlife is full of surprises sure - Connor thinks they’re being a little over the top with the sarcastic symbolism these days.

The rest of the RK800 models, he’d found in a Cyberlife basement with their faces blown to pieces. The sentiment that he was the last didn't settle well, like he’d been stripped of the reincarnation trump card. 

What definitely caught him off guard though, was that this android was an RK900, an upgraded version of himself - a bitter feeling curls up in his stomach and stays there unwelcome.

Standing about 2 inches taller than Connor, obviously built to be much more intimidating - 50 pounds heavier, daunting blue eyes, and eyebrows that came to rest flat.

Connor knew Cyberlife would eventually replace him, all androids were upgraded eventually, to smooth out their cracks and imperfections - it doesn't settle right that they’d probably started work on this one before he was even in the field.

The RK900 stands broad, feet placed in a way that would make two humans struggle to take him down. 

Fighting this android head on would surely leave him without limbs, he’s everything that Connor is lacking. Calculating look is still on his similar face, like a million questions and answers are processing all at the same time. He looks like his LED should be running a bright yellow, the same as Connor’s, yet this android’s is ripped right out, smooth skin where the circle should be.

Connor is faster to react, using whatever shock the other is processing to pull his hands down and shoot at the taller android’s wrist, knocking the gun clean out, and then another to his opposite kneecap. The android shouts, falling on his knees - Connor looks for one last second, jogging, then turns tail and sprints, jumping over the wired fence surrounding the parking lot.

The deafening sounds of bullets firing and pinging onto metal come from behind, but something about how they’re sprayed makes him think they were never fired with intent.

The strange android never follows, probably unable to run because of how shattered the joints in his knee were, and Connor’s breathing is still coming too fast, desperately trying to cool the thirium pump staggering in his chest.

“Fucking Cyberlife.” Is the only thing he manages to think from everything that just happened, it comes out mumbled and full of disbelief.

There is a bus, neon being the only light other than a rusty streetlamp, pulling into a stop across the other side of the road. It’ll be enough cover for now, he just needs to get out of the area.

Running in front so it doesn't leave too quickly, the doors creak open. Only a few humans returning from a day shift and some androids presumably on their way to a night shift. Spoofing his identification, Connor pays with a small spin of yellow running through his LED, what his system identifies as the musty smell of public transport registers.

Before his deviation Connor was perfectly calculated in his movements to remain as efficient as possible, yet now, when he finds an empty seat towards the back of the bus where the windows are separated as not to be seen from the outside, he drops down into his seat, limbs immediately relaxing so it makes a ‘oomph’ sound when he lands.

Quickly running a systems analysis, most things flashback as optimal, others come back as overheated - but they quickly subside with some time. He lets out a sigh, another useless mannerism he picked up for mostly Hank, as well as some of the people humans working at the DPD, social integration working too well. Hank had caught him sigh for the first time, he’d laughed and clapped him over the back of the head saying something along the lines of “You’re learning! Deviant of mine!”

Hank was difficult, and so was Connor in different ways, maybe that's why they became so close. His fingers twitch on his lap, the bus rumbles on.

There's a strange emptiness between his fingers, usually filled by the quarter he always kept in his back pocket, he must have left it in the motel room. 

Connor doesn't have a plan this time, he knows he would be safe at the DPD for a short while, but he would never want to risk the lives of his fellow officers - he and Fowler had talked about this when the first attack happened. Connor didn't want to be the thing that drew gunfire on people he cared about.

It shot a panic into Connor so much he never stays in the same place anymore, where do you go when there's a billion dollar company trying to kill you? He's lucky he's even on the DPD payroll anymore, sure his analysis skills are unmatched but he only works part time, mostly paperwork and evidence review remotely. 

Eyes twitching as he begins a call to Hank, LED spinning yellow as the connection waits to be answered.

“Hello?” Hank's voice comes groggily, as if he just woke up. Connor thinks he hears Sumo jump in the background noise at the sound of his owner rising.

“Hey Lieutenant.” Connor replies, looking down at his hands and picking at the synthetic skin locking in the plastic nails.

“Connor? Holy shit.” He hears rustling, Hank sound much more awake suddenly. “You, uh.. Okay?”

Connor sniffles before he talks, the chill from the bus flushes his processors nicely.  
“They attacked again,” Connor pauses, not really knowing where he's going with the conversation considering how late it is. “I saw who it is.”

“The guy they keep sending? Fuck that’s great Connor - we have a suspect now.”

“It’s-” Connor starts, running through the profile he’d already put together, “It’s an RK900 model android.”

Hank doesn't say anything for a moment, but Connor can feel what he’s thinking even through the call. “They sent another you after you?” He finally says tentatively.

“That's not completely accurate. He is an upgraded model, but he seems to be deviant strangely.” Connor corrects, not harshly. “He is faster and stronger than me, but it seems only in head to head combat - I managed to disarm and disable him and now… I’m on a bus.”

“You're on a bus?” Hank echoes, like all he caught was that Connor was on a bus. 

“Yes Hank, heading downtown.” Connor tries to say like he knows what he's doing, all he knows is that Hank lives in Downtown, and he can make a 10 minute walk to his house from the nearest bus stop. He doesn't tell Hank this.

“Fuck, okay.” 

After another pause, Hank sounds like he's thinking, or shaking off the sleep.

“I’m sorry to wake you Lieutenant” Connor says to fill the space.

“”What? Shut up Connor, ring me again when you're there, I'll come pick you up.”

-

Connor never really had a sense of time, but it feels a while before he reaches downtown, his internal clock reads it's been 25 minutes. His head was filled with the face of the RK900 - conflicting emotions on how it made him feel. It feels uncanny, a weird feeling - like it's a symbol of his sins coming back to bite him. 

He feels silly, the android was obviously a deviant, if he wasn't Connor assumes the android would have shot at him as soon as they made eye contact. But he hesitated, seemed scared to see who he’d actually been hunting. Like he felt the same things Conner had in that moment. 

It was ironic really, the two faces of Janus but one is trying to kill the other. Past and future, opposites but similar in the literal sense. 

He had looked so conflicted, like he was seeing Connor for who he really was, even though he was a complete stranger. Maybe he had the same conflict yet reversed, Connor sees a stronger self trying to kill him, the other sees he’s trying to kill off his weaker self.

The bus rolls to a slow stop, he gives Hank another call, dropping down from the last step off the bus. A slow pattern of rain forms pools of sleek darkness, rippling as each drop splashes in. 

It's another five minutes before Hank pulls up on the side of the curb, long after the bus rolled on. The older man pushes the door open from the inside, leaning over the break of his old manual car. Connor shakes his jacket out before stepping in, trying his best to savour the dryness inside.

“Hey Connor.'' Hank says tentatively as Connor sits, strapping the seat belt over him, Hank doesn't have his own on. “You uh, look a little shaken.” 

It's a little awkward, it always is when Hank is trying hard to be kind and careful.

“I’m okay. I just didn't expect it.” is all Connor says, Hank grunts in agreement and presses down on the accelerator.

“So you have an evil clone now?”

“We look similar, yes.”

“This is some shit you see in the movies.”

-

x = open(‘RK900 MEMORY’)  
view(x)  
success  
➤ 02:43AM 10/07/39

“The fuck happened to you?” Quinn remarks as he pulls himself into the back of the black van with his good hand.

“Just.. you know,” Ethan pauses heave his bad leg into the van. It doesn't hurt anymore, the feeling of the joints scraping together was enough for him to turn the sensors in his leg off, “Regular Wednesday.”

Quinn laughs, pulling the doors shut, hair sweeping over her warm taupe skin, “You’re gonna get fired Nines.”

“I know.” he says, duller than he realises.

Quinn returns towards the front of the van, slamming her foot into the back of the driver's seat, and the van jumps into motion.

“Hey what happened out there?” she says, playing off the comforting tone by digging straight into the small tool box in the corner. She pulls out a dull knife and a propane torch. 

“Mark got away.” the blank look on his face makes Quinn shift her stance.

Ethan adjusts his position, stretching the leg out in front and rolling his shoulders back, wiping the blood still dripping from his hand on his jacket.

“You’re feeling talkative today.” She quips sarcastically, barely cleaning the knife as she runs a dirty cloth over it, Ethan grimaces. “Probably better this is going to hurt.”

“I don't feel pain in my physical form.” 

“Liar.”

She’s partially right, he could turn his sensors back on and feel the hot scorch of metal on his skin, but he’s not in that kind of mood today - bigger problems on the mind itch instead.

He's been hunting this guy for months, whenever he’d get a tip it’d always be ‘keep long distance Ethan’. Like they got off on this little game of anonymity.

The RK800, looking like a younger, innocent version of himself - Ethan’s getting paid to take out Cyberlife’s trash, shame begins to creep up his neck. He’d been their hit man before he’d deviated, and even after he always said yes - it's just a job right?

Quinn steps over, looking down at where the bullet ripped right through the mechanics in his knee. She kneels, pushing the knife into the fabric covering Ethan’s thigh, and tears it down to expose the wound.

“You look spooked.” she says as the propane touch fires up, holding it to the knife and the back begins to glow, lighting her face up warm in the darkness of the van.

“Yeah well, they sent me after the RK800.”

The torch wavers away from the knife, Quinn looks up at him a little sympathetic, it fails to make him feel better, he knows what she's going to say.

“The Connor? Why do you care?” she says, face still holding sympathy.

“I don't.” It feels like a lie.

Quinn doesn't reply, just finishes heating up the knife, pulling the flesh on his knee together slightly and pressing the knife in, his skin hisses, blistering under the heat.

She sighs, “You'll have to go get repairs on that tomorrow if you wanna walk.”

“Yeah.”

-

Muted car lights are the only thing lighting up the small apartment as Ethan staggers in, he goes straight for the fridge, finding a half empty bottle of blueblood in the door compartment, uncapping it he drags his leg towards the dim couch opposite the kitchen.

The sounds of Ethan dropping onto the sofa break up the filtered car horns and bustle of the city echoing around the apartment, he swishes the blue liquid around in the bottle, looking at it with anguish.

“Cheers.” He whispers to himself, nudging the bottle in the air lamely, then takes a swig as if it was a beer. 

The Connor’s face flickers into his mind, he'd read up on the RK800 model previously, he was made from this androids imperfections, he wanted to know what he was modelled from - partly from plain curiosity as well. He feels dumb. How did he not realise the guy Cyberlife was slipping his cash to take him out was the second to last android in his series?

Even so, the weaker model had shot two bullet holes in him, with this sad look on his face like he’d been betrayed. Ethan thinks his face must have looked pretty similar. Why?

Maybe because Ethan vividly remembers putting bullet holes in the rest of the RK800 series before he deviated, maybe androids do have reason for sentiment, for their own series at least. What he would never admit though, even to himself, a budding flicker of protectiveness locked his body up and didn't let him shoot.

Yet the smaller android never hesitated, even through the way his hands shook when he held them up in false surrender. Maybe that’s a product of dealing with Cyberlife rather than who he really was. The Connor had this look on his face like he could never even hurt a fly - that's where they differed. 

Ethan was as shocked as Connor. Why is it still playing on his mind?

It was as if there was some mutual agreement that neither of them understood yet.


End file.
